Kids & Puppies: The Best Presents
By Emily Morrison
I was the kid who always wanted to unwrap a dog for Christmas. Every year, I inspected the packages under the tree, hoping to find one bigger than a breadbox with a few airholes in it. Eventually, I read the writing on Santa‘s wall — he was never gonna deliver a dog, but if I wrote a report about responsible cat ownership, my parents might take me to the humane society to rescue an impoverished kitten.
Apparently, my research impressed them so much that, for 16 glorious years, Aggie called my parents’ basement in the winter and the garage in the summer “home.”
And I called myself a cat person.
After Aggie passed, I was old enough to buy my own puppy for Christmas, and when I saw that golden retriever in the arms of one of my students (she brought in the last one in the litter as a discount puppy), I fell in love for the second time in my life.
Unfortunately, eight short years after Ryan stole our hearts, he passed away. By then, I was a mother of three and full-on dog lover. We had added to our brood with a lovable labradoodle named Benny, who wasn’t as well-behaved as Ryan, but Ben had a goofy kind of grace that made you forgive him for rummaging through the trash and emitting the world’s most noxious dog-gas (due to the rummaging).
For the last decade, Ben has been the peanut butter to our family’s jelly. He’s the savory substance that gives us unconditional love and makes our lives deliciously complete.
Recently, after an idyllic run through the blueberry fields, Ben limped a little. Though it doesn’t happen often, Benny occasionally favors his back leg, so I chalked it up to arthritis and moved on.
When his limp lingered, we took him to the vet, only to discover a partial tear in his right hind leg and a full tear on his left. Our options were to pay for an expensive tibial plateau leveling osteotomy (TPLO) or let it go and see how well our dog could compensate with a shaky back leg or two.
I should tell you that I’m not the kind of person who can actually “let things go.” I love my dogs as much as my children, so there was really no debate. As a dog mom, I’ve discovered a strange sort of symmetry to my life.
Santa may not have brought me a puppy, but he gave my children Benny’s knee surgery for Christmas.
Light on presents and heavy on dog duty, my daughters split the day shift; my son took the afternoon; and my husband and I handled the overnights (though one of us slept with noise-cancelling headphones and needed to be reminded that there is no “I” in “We”).
One chore, med, and ice chart later, the Christmas gift that kept on giving turned into a solid 8-12 weeks of doggie daycare.
Around this same time, my son discovered his creaky knees weren’t holding up so well. More pain medication, ice, stretches, and charts ensued.
Here’s a true fact: when your 18-year-old kid shares the same ice pack as your 10-year-old dog, you realize motherhood is kinda like nursing. Add in two or three basketball games a week, early morning dog walks, menopausal mood swings, and that’s where I’m at — the seventh circle of mid-life.
But this doesn’t mean I’m not happy.
Since my 22-year-old daughter graduated from college and moved back home with her chef partner, I’ve eaten well. How many people can say at the end of every day that their three grown children, plus one bonus kid, share a meal and a movie before bed?
Probably not many, but I can. Honestly, these two- and four-legged creatures are the best present I’ve ever received.
Yes, trying to be a good dog- and human-mom is hard, but when my husband takes the noise-canceling headphones off and the dogs out before setting the coffee beside the bed, I feel like I can wake up and do this taking care of pups and people all over again.
And it’s better than Christmas.